


Bad Actors With Bad Habits (Some Sad Singers, They Just Play Tragic)

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: Star Wars Legends: Jedi Quest Series - Jude Watson, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Chair Sex, Disguise, First Time Bottoming, Kidnapping, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Slavery, Stranger Sex, The Back Room at the Outlander, roleplaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10852917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: Tired of his Padawan's poor behavior, Obi-Wan sets out to teach him an unorthodox lesson.





	Bad Actors With Bad Habits (Some Sad Singers, They Just Play Tragic)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patientalien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patientalien/gifts).



> I made a deal with patientalien that I would write this in exchange for her finishing a small IRL project for me. (It is also our eighth wedding anniversary, as it happens.) Fairly certain the handful of tropes in this is as ancient as the concept of Obikin shipping itself. This probably isn't a terribly original idea, that is, although I hope my take on it, which has been simmering on my mind's back burner for ages, adds something unique to the pile. Title comes from "Lover I Don't Have To Love" by Bright Eyes, whose lyrics I have also mined for story inspiration more than once. Notably, Anakin is roughly sixteen in this and doin' it, so the underage content warning applies here.

It’s not that you’re going out of your way to be either a rigid taskmaster, nor a lax figure of authority. It’s entirely possible it wouldn’t matter one way or the other, however, because you’re fairly certain your Padawan would be this way regardless of whether it had ended up being you or your Master training him. That’s what you tell yourself these days, at least, that even the great Qui-Gon Jinn would occasionally be left scratching his head at the boy’s many antics.

In any case, you have long come to recognize, as you pretend to turn a blind eye to sleepy, frequently rubbed eyes during early morning Council meetings, and stand down blandly when yet another missed class demerit marrs his academic record that regardless of how you end up curbing it, this pattern of behavior is absolutely not sustainable.

You don’t necessarily have a game plan, the night you catch wise early on to the fact that he’s planning to sneak out, not even when you decide to trail behind him a ways to find out where he goes. You’re not entirely surprised that his eager, pointed footsteps take you both further and further down the winding roads of Coruscant’s Orange District, though there’s a pang of nostalgia for when the worst thing he might be getting up to was garbage pit racing. You’re positive, based both on past personal experience and the seedy energy coming off of the nightlife clustered around and inside of the Outlander, perhaps the jewel of the entire sordid area, that he’s going to be getting up to something much randier than building a tricked out swoop from garbage.

You’re not wrong, of course. You watch from a distance how quickly he disappears, just another patron looking for anonymous pleasure, because even though he still bears the small ponytail and beaded braid denoting his status as a Jedi learner, this is not a place where anyone cares much for backstories. Even law enforcement officials enjoy some sense of anonymity here. Essentially, if you’re not a ‘droid, you’ve got a weakness. Everyone here has a price.

Unfortunately, you don’t have to wonder for long after Anakin’s. Though he fast-tracks his way into the nightclub, you’re easily able to track him, being a Jedi yourself, after all. More to the point, you’re his Master, however little he seems to respect that, and though it’s a job that often involves you feeling frequently out of your element, at the very least, you pride yourself on being able to guess after some of your apprentice’s proclivities.

You didn’t actually know about the Outlander’s ‘Back Room’ until you were practically ready to be Knighted. It’s not that you were a naive Padawan, but most of the time, the criminals you ended up chasing around in these parts beelined first for drinks and money. You suppose the goings-ons in the Back Room could technically count as sport, but certainly not the kind one would see featured at the Galactic Games. (Not officially, anyways.)

Anakin knows about the Back Room. Even without going in yourself, you can sense that you’re not alone in noticing him saunter in, entirely too recklessly, too maturely for his scant sixteen-some years. Unfortunately, some taller creature blocks your eyeline. Fortunately, nobody seems to find it too peculiar that you feel the need to skulk near the doorway in order to get a better look. If you’re honest with yourself, it’s probably because you’re hardly the only one.

He’s talking to a creature, humanoid, taller than he is. He looks a bit bored, like he knows he’s better than this, and you watch as he motions the interested suitor away. It surprises you, but then the admirer returns a moment later, unknowingly breezing past you through the doorway and handing Anakin a tall, slim glass. You want to believe he takes some sort of precaution in making sure its contents haven’t been tampered with, really you do. That said, you can’t help but note that Anakin downs it all extremely quickly.

The creature looks satisfied. Anakin, you can’t help but notice, looks somewhat more bleary-eyed. There are too many signatures clustered here to trace just one, but you’d bet some dirtily-won credits that Anakin’s connection with the Force has also been somewhat dulled by the alcohol in his system. It’s probably why his body language is significantly more submissive when the creature reaches out a hand to stroke down the boy’s cheek. Even more shockingly, when he draws Anakin into his arms a moment later, pawing at him possessively, he retains all of his limbs and livelihood.

You don’t want to know how far this is going to go. Something, however, compels you to continue watching, to continue standing guard, under the all too acceptable guise of ogling. The creature makes his own hand motion, and you watch Anakin reach down and begin fiddling, more seductively than with purpose, with the taller being’s trousers. The creature probably finds it cute, really, the way Anakin gropes him kind of exploratorily, though judging by the way he then presses down slightly on the top of Anakin’s head, he hasn’t come to the Back Room for foreplay.

You don’t want to watch this, but you do. You watch Anakin tug the other being’s cock (purple, for what it’s worth, like the rest of him) from its confines, and you watch him put it in his mouth and pull it out again, and then lick and suckle it a couple of times, especially the head. You watch your Padawan kind of laugh even as he chokes a little because the cock’s owner gets impatient and shoves it in, and then how Anakin falls into a kind of perfunctory groove, like it’s a particularly dry set of math problems he has to do before he can legitimately claim that his homework is finished. He doesn’t seem to enjoy it, you note, but it still gives him something that he values, that he seems to need, the attention even more than the alcohol, probably. 

The other being finishes in Anakin’s mouth, probably because it’s the option requiring the least amount of clean-up. The boy is still fully clothed himself when he stands up, and allows himself to be kissed, for the man whose come he just swallowed to tug him close and plunder his mouth a bit, but he seems hesitant when his large partner makes to have him turn around towards the wall behind them. The creature grabs his arm, tugs a couple of times, even seems to reach towards Anakin’s long braid for leverage, but Anakin pulls away. You can tell he’s saying something warningly, but you’re not sure precisely what it is. The next moment, however, when the creature attempts to grab at him again, and Anakin uses his own strength against him by leaning into the angle and flipping him onto his back, is much clearer. 

Several patrons scuttle past you out of the Back Room and surrounding area. It’s probably time, therefore, for you to go, too. Just so, you’re compelled to stay and watch just long enough to see Anakin waggle his fingers in front of the stunned being’s face and mutter something that you strongly suspect involves encouraging him to forget this encounter entirely. The act fills you with relief at Anakin’s self-preservation, and worry about perhaps ten other aspects of this evening, and contempt, and maybe something else you’re not prepared to deal with yet, anymore than you wanted to deal with this. You’re going to have to deal with this, however, you know, sooner than later, one way or another. 

Anakin comes home a few hours even after you left him to his own devices. He seems surprised to find that you’re still awake, propped in Qui-Gon’s old armchair, flicking through a datapad. “Long night?” You train your voice and face to seem neutral, though you feel a little like you’re stalking prey. If you’re honest with yourself, you kind of enjoy it. “You’d better get some rest,” you suggest airily. “We’ve a meeting at dawn with the Council, remember.”

“I remember,” Anakin says dully. It almost seems like he wants to say something more, but then he shakes his head almost imperceptibly and heads for his small bedroom. “Good night, Master,” he says finally. 

You smile blandly. “Good night, Anakin.”

*

You go to the Outlander for the third time in a week. You go because you’re bored, and restless, and maybe it’s not the Jedi way, but maybe you’d just about kill to hear someone say something to you besides that what you’re doing isn’t the Jedi way. 

You wonder what it would take for Obi-Wan to do more than tut after you for not being his perfect, rule-abiding android. You wonder if Obi-Wan is capable of doing anything besides complain and appear scandalized that you aren’t simply a passive sponge ready to absorb information at his every whim. 

Sometimes, you even think about Obi-Wan in a place like this, one of several beings serving as wallpaper in the smarmy underbelly of the planet. He would be here, with you, and indulge you by drinking and idly watching the more troublesome creatures that make their way here, and then you might even stop off at Dexter Jettster’s diner and sit in your usual booth that you’ve been told more than once by the establishment’s owner is exactly where Obi-Wan used to sit with his Master when he was a ‘tadpole’ (Padawan, presumably) himself. It’s funny usually, the idea that the perfect, pristine Obi-Wan Kenobi would be anywhere near a place like this, but you still wish sometimes, and you worry too that you and your Master will never make it past the tutting and vaguely misunderstanding one another stage.

Sometimes, you come here just to drink and people-watch. Sometimes, you let an admirer buy you some booze in exchange for a little flirting, or even sexual acts. It makes you feel heady, in control to see how desirable you are, and of course, your Jedi training can come in handy in case one of those admirers steps out of line. You think now about what Obi-Wan might look like if he were to find out that this is what you used all his lectures and training for. It’s a very funny mental image.

Tonight, you choose a stool you’ve used a number of times before, and the bartender brings you your usual drink without having to ask. You don’t have to tell him to make it strong either. You’re a little surprised, however, when he brings you a new one before you’re not even halfway through the first. “From an admirer,” you’re told conspiratorially, and you follow the pointed finger with your gaze to a masked, somewhat nondescript being too far away to get a close-up glance at. They’re not your usual fare, the lascivious and clearly lustful creatures whose primal natures make them easy to read, even easier to control, should the need arise. This fellow (you assume) gives nothing away by his stance or even with an interested gesture. He doesn’t even seem to be particularly interested in you. You wonder if the bartender made a mistake. 

You aren’t left wondering for long. Your admirer beckons slightly with one hand, and then saunters towards the establishment’s infamous Back Room area. Still, you don’t follow right away, knowing full well from past encounters that if someone is truly interested in an intimate moment with you, they’ll wait. You sip your drink(s) leisurely, not nursing them, but not drinking them with any particular sense of urgency either. After a few minutes, you decide you’re bored, and that you might as well at least see what this person has to offer. 

You waltz towards the Back Room. Some other patrons nod at you knowingly, and your aloofness probably makes them even more appreciative of you. Upon scanning the area, you realize that your intended target is nowhere to be found. You’re a little confused. A nearby patron shrugs when you briefly describe your admirer. Nobody else seems wholly concerned.

You teeter now between slinking back towards the bar and seeing what other attention you can drum up in the seediest part of the establishment. Suddenly, another regular is leaning close, whispering conspiratorially in your ear: “Your friend is outside. He wants you to meet him there.”

You nod and wave them off. It’s not that you’re unaware of the potential danger of, well, all of this, but you’re a Jedi, after all (or soon will be), and for as much harping as your Master does about safety before missions and the like, whatever you’ve been doing so far has served you well enough. You head outside. It’s unsurprising that your admirer isn’t simply waiting for you at the entrance, and you move towards the shadowed parts of the outside of the building, peering casually into the many dark crevices to be found there. You accidentally happen upon a Twi’lek prostitute with a client in one alleyway, and you just smirk and move on.

After several minutes of this, you begin to get antsy, however. “Where did they go?” you grumble out loud, and you’re just about to give up for the night entirely, when - 

“Over here.”

You startle, because you’re pretty sure you were just looking from whence he seems to have appeared, but there he is now, in any case. Still masked, you aren’t able to get a look at his face. His synth boots look thick and like they could add a couple of inches in height; even so, he’s a tad shorter than you, even now before you’re fully grown, a little stockier. His voice is unremarkable and gruff: “I’ve been watching you tonight,” he tells you, and you shrug a little.

“Is that so?” In your experience, it’s not necessary to be particularly cordial during these encounters, as nobody seems particularly interested in your personality. It might even make you more attractive to be relatively rude. 

It doesn’t seem to deter this guy, in any case. “It is so,” he says, much closer to your ear than he seemed to be even a split second before. You start to turn around to face him, to make sure you can see him because somehow he keeps unnerving you whenever he’s out of sight. You do see him now, he’s right there, and that’s the last thought you remember before you feel the needle jab into the skin of your neck. Just before things go dark, you faintly make out the, somehow, simultaneously foreign and familiar words:

“Good night, Anakin.”

*

When you first open your eyes again, you’re on your knees, in what seems like the cockpit of a small (foreign) ship. Your arms are bound behind your back with a metal lead, which is attached to a hook traditionally used to tether cargo. You’re not in pain, aside from a vague throbbing from the injection site, but your usually consistent hold on the Force is tenuous, at best. Your lightsaber is missing from its usual place at your side.

Your captor is there, too, seemingly unchanged from the way you remember seeing him last. He’s ignoring you currently, and you try to flex your wrists within their bonds, testing their strength. It is significant. You can’t see outside from your vantage point, but the floor beneath you is not vibrating from the hum of any engine, and so you presume you are still on-planet. 

Your captor saunters over once he notices that you are awake. “Looks like you’re in trouble, little Jedi,” he intones, and you can’t place any particular dialect or accent. “We’ll be on our way to our destination shortly,” he continues, and then balks when you do not rise to the bait. “Aren’t you curious where I’m taking you?” he asks. You just shrug. There’s a small amount of satisfaction in it for you, if you had to be honest about it.

“A pretty thing like you is wasted in free encounters on the back streets of Coruscant,” your captor explains. “But in a more … controlled environment, available only to the highest bidder, your talents could be quite useful.” 

You continue obstinately to say nothing, although your silence is now infused with a base fear. You know all too well the types of ‘talents’ a being would need to outbid others to obtain, having lived on Tatooine for much of your life. It’s entirely possible this man intends to take you back there, or to another backwater planet in the Outer Rim just like it. The thought fills you with dread, and chagrin, and, not for the first time, your mind is drawn to the mental image of your mother, the day you left her to come … well, here. You wonder, also not for the first time, whether it was worth it.

Your captor snapping his fingers makes you blink and shake your head a little, clearing away what is slowly becoming but a vague mental picture of Shmi Skywalker. “Not very good at paying attention,” he tsks at you, and you buck when he reaches out to grip roughly at your chin, forcing your face and gaze upwards. “You’ll need to learn better if you’re going to survive where you’re going.

“It’s … warmer there than it is on Coruscant,” he continues, and you imagine whatever his face looks like that it’s probably smirking. He gestures downwards. “That will make being naked or close to it all of the time easier, I’m sure.” He chuckles, and it’s more of a harsh rasp than legitimate laughter. 

It occurs to you around this time that the solution to extracting yourself from this predicament might in fact be the same as your most common defense for dealing with aggressive Back Room patrons. You’re fairly sure whatever you were injected with wasn’t a Force suppressant or anything, although you attempt to key into it enough to hold steady on your captor’s mind as well as your own. You can feel it a bit, like the start of a headache, the pressure building behind your eyes, but total control eludes you. You assume there was something in the syringe you were shot with. Most likely, the alcohol purchased for you was simply alcohol, meant to make you docile, to make you stupidly let your defenses down.

You must look like you’re concentrating, because your captor chuckles. “Not so cocky without your superpowers, eh?” He indicates suddenly by way of pointing at his side that he did, in fact, confiscate your lightsaber. “What even is a Jedi without his weapons?” he muses. You say nothing. “Ah,” he adds, voice still tinged with amusement, “but it must not bother you too much to mingle with us civilians. That’s why you come here, isn’t it?” he challenges you. “You must not like being a Jedi very much if you spend so much time pretending not to be one. Well,” he says, and reaches out to pet your face (you recoil, but he has freedom of movement on his side), “you soon won’t have to worry about that.”

The gloved hand reaches out again, but this time, it lingers, and then travels downward, into the ‘V’ of your tunics. “You’re warm, flushed, he tells you. “That’s going to help you fetch many clients. They’ll enjoy how innocent you seem.”

He kneels. You avoid eye contact and speech, but that doesn’t stop him from tugging your clothing apart. Synth leather-covered hands roam your (indeed, flushed) skin; he tweaks your nipples and pinches them a little when you squirm and attempt to twist away. He laughs blatantly at your inability to free yourself.

“We both know you’re not actually all that innocent, of course.” The petting becomes more pronounced; his hands are at your crotch, and then inside of your pants. When one of them cradles your genitals lightly, you buck wildly in your most violent attempt at getting away yet. Alas, it comes to naught. The same hand closes over your cock. Your fidgeting adds enough friction to cause a dull jolt of arousal, and you stop physically resisting, at least for now, for the sake of your immediate livelihood. 

Stock still, now, you nonetheless continue to be groped by your captor. “Do you let them kiss you?” he croons. “Fuck you?” Do you suck them off and then steal away, like your Jedi powers mean you’re always in control? A lot of good that did you tonight,” he laughs. And then he grips your cock hard enough and suddenly that, at last, is enough to cause you to cry out.

“There,” he croons again. “There, now. That’s all I wanted. That’s all they want from you. But I don’t think that’s enough for you.” The voice is cold again, bristling. “You want the best of both worlds: To be a part-time Jedi” - he grips you again and you swallow most, but not all, of a yell - “and a half-hearted whore. You’re nothing but a little whore, isn’t that right, An- little Jedi?”

The slip up is subtle, and absolutely everything about this situation seems to logically lead in precisely the opposite direction, but there it is. Suddenly, the masked stranger before you seems distinctly less strange. 

Wisps of half-formed thoughts and observations begin to piece themselves together in your mind, which is now considerably less addled as you push stubbornly through your previously drugged haze. It’s him, somehow, some way, and you can’t tell if he knows that you know yet, that your accidental arousal a moment ago now seems to be real, the natural product of months of confusing thoughts and feelings. It’s really him, you’re sure of it now; even the way he holds himself when kneeling, almost as though bracing himself for bad news, is so apparently him that you’re shocked, even considering the circumstances, that you didn’t notice it until now. 

“Hmm.” You watch him with considerably more interest than before, seeing now how he seems to be trying to figure out how to save this charade. “It’s an awful lot of hours to whittle away before we get to the Outer Rim,” he finally suggests. “Perhaps,” he continues, and a hand drapes your clothed knee, “I should sample you myself. Or maybe,” he adds, “I leave you tied up back here the entire way, aroused, frustrated, imprisoned by the inevitable consequences of your selfish actions.” The line is close enough to one of Obi-Wan’s lectures that you very nearly give yourself away by snorting, but manage to save face.

Then, he does begin to move away. Somewhat desperate, you lick your lips to draw attention to them, something you’ve been told more than once is impressive. “You won’t be able to have me again while I’m still this innocent,” you breathe, and you desperately wish you were able to see his face, to find out if his eyes dilated with lust the way so many of your other clients’ did as they gave themselves over to their basest arousals. That you cannot picture Obi-Wan having a sense of arousal makes the concept all the more foreign, and makes you all the more desperate to bring it forth.

For the moment, you must content yourself with your captor’s increasingly awkward body language. Your Force connection is still a bit fuzzy, too, but you think if you reach, you can sense the vaguest trickle of anxious annoyance, tinged with your Master’s unique energy signature. “At the very least,” he tells you in that still-alien voice, “you’ll lose some of that cockiness along with it.”

You do snort this time. Like you haven’t heard that before. You decide to throw all of your cards onto the table: “Maybe,” you tell your captor, “you can eradicate it with your cock, Master.”

You’re positive that Obi-Wan’s face underneath the mask is priceless. More obviously, you can see one of his fists ball up at his side in frustration. Probably, he’s angry at himself for his earlier slip up. “Anakin,” he mutters, and it sounds weird in his disguised voice, but he still sounds aggrieved and tired now, defeated. You wait for him to approach again, but the feel of the metal bindings loosening around your wrists surprises you instead. “Wha-” you begin, but your Master has already turned away. You watch him, mouth agape, as he returns to the ship’s cockpit, sliding into the pilot’s seat.

That this whole occurrence appears to be over now as soon as it had begun leaves you unsettled. Mentally, you kick yourself for not letting things run their course naturally, although you doubt your Master would have followed through completely anyways. But oh, how far he had still let it go. It’s a disappointing conclusion, to be certain, but all the same, well, it doesn’t have to be the conclusion.

You have the decency to pull your clothing back into place before approaching. You’re a little dizzy, but it’s an easy journey to the front of the ship. Obi-Wan, you’re gratified to see, has removed his helmet and gloves. His hair is a little mussed, and he looks tense, unsure. There’s a small, rounded device sitting atop the mask and gloves that you assume is a vocal modulator. “Master, I’m sorry,” you tell him, and he looks at you askance.

“For what?” The dulcet tones of his normal Coruscanti accent are like music to your ears, and also to your yet unflagging erection. 

You wet your lips again, semi-accidentally. “I’m sorry you had to come after me, Master,” you say. Then, taking in the contrast of his skin against the synth fabric of his remaining disguise, “You look good in dark colors.” 

“I’m sure.” Obi-Wan’s smile is wry yet begrudgingly affectionate, quite different from his slaver persona. The solemn expression he then affixes you with is quintessential Obi-Wan, too, doting, concerned. (Studying him like so is doing nothing to abate your arousal, to be certain.)

“Is being a Jedi so bad, Anakin?” Your eyes meet. You look away first. Obi-Wan’s face is supplicating now. “Is your life so devoid of excitement and purpose that you feel the need to sneak off here every night?”

You look down. “Not every night,” you murmur, and then, as you hear your Master’s exasperated sigh, “Sometimes it’s just … easier,” you try to explain. “Nobody knows me here. What they expect of me, it’s base and easy to fulfill - I never feel like I’m going to disappoint them. And if they decide they want more than I want to give them, I know I can get away.” 

“Except this time,” Obi-Wan declares ruefully.

“Except this time,” you agree. “But it’s not like there are even a ton of Force sensitives with the ability to incapacitate a Jedi here, Master.”

“You don’t know that, Anakin.” You know from experience that when your Master is about to launch into a lecture, his nostrils flare above the reddish blonde hairs of his beard out of well-placed righteousness. You also know from personal experience that you find this relatively adorable, which naturally harshes the effectiveness of the wisdom Obi-Wan obviously means to impart. You feel bad about that, really you do, because you never mean to outright disrespect your Master.

All that said, your actions could probably be construed as such when, instead of nodding seriously, you snort a little (a little!) and fall to your knees before him. “What are you-” your Master queries, and then doubles down on the modest outrage when you begin fiddling with the front of his pants. “Anakin, stop,” Obi-Wan commands you, but the shock in his voice, to say nothing of the sudden gasp and flush in his cheeks as you not only don’t stop, but also make fairly firm first contact with his cock, once again makes it difficult for you to feel truly admonished. 

“Master,” you breathe. Obi-Wan reaches forward in an attempt to probably tuck everything back out of your grasp and regain control of this ridiculous situation, but you grab it and fold it under your own instead of allowing it to reach its goal. 

“Were you going to let things go any further?” you query, and it’s not really a fair question because your breath is hot on his balls right now. You can see your Master begin to formulate a retort with the faculties that shock has not yet managed to incapacitate. “I want you, Master,” you tell him in mid-fondle. His nostrils flare again, but probably for a different reason, or maybe not. “I’ve been wanting you to do this,” you tell him. “Maybe if you had, I wouldn’t have felt like I needed to go to the Outlander.”

Obi-Wan is the one to snort this time. “I am not going to allow you to blame me for your reckless decision-making, Anakin,” he tells you. Then: “Stop.” His voice is firm, and the grip he suddenly has on your upper arms firmer still. Faced with the possibility of not being able to explain or even quip your way back into such circumstances, perhaps ever again, you do not, in fact, stop. Instead, the leverage of Obi-Wan’s tugging allows you to propel yourself into his arms, your upper torso balanced enough on his legs to allow your faces - your mouths, specifically, of course - to meet.

Your Master’s beard is soft against your skin, more than you expected it to be. Your first kiss is probably elongated a little but your kneading and clinging and pressing yourself against Obi-Wan and the couple almost innate attempts he makes to end it sooner. It’s nice. You imagine Obi-Wan thinks so too, but you aren’t surprised that he looks aggrieved when you finally do break apart. 

“Anakin, what in the blazes.” The nostril-flaring is definitely back in the realm of moral outrage now. He once again reaches out to put a physical barrier between you, but once more, you stop his still gloved hand mid-procession and cup the palm to your cheek. “This is inappropriate,” he tells you. “It needs to stop.”

“Do you want it to stop?” you ask him, nearly matching his indignant tone with your own. “Was it your plan to bring me out here and then just quit? Would you have taken me off-planet?”

Obi-Wan looks somewhat flustered by your sudden anger. “I was going to inject you again and then bring you back home,” he admits.

You gawp at him. “And then what?” you ask. “I would have woken up in my bed and you would have lectured me? Looks like I saved you the trouble.” 

“Yes, you cut the whole operation in half.” Obi-Wan’s voice is rueful, yet good-natured now. The affection he has for you is plain on his face. It makes you want to press your face against it.

You stand up and brush off your knees. “I really am sorry, Master,” you tell him sincerely. You have to stoop a little to reach his mouth with yours this time. It’s a little easier once you grip the sides of his face, and as a bonus, the sound he makes when you do it goes straight to your groin. Less talking is best, you decide, and you climb aboard his lap silently, straddling him with your legs, before he can formulate a proper protest. 

Naturally, his silence doesn’t last forever - people haven’t started calling your Master ‘The Negotiator’ for habitually staying silent. “Anakin-” he begins again, and that’s when you intentionally grind yourself against his (not entirely soft) cock.

“I want you to kiss me,” Master,” you tell him breathlessly, just after you pull apart from doing just that. “Those other men, I don’t let them get close to me, but I want to be close to you.” You buck a little again strategically, and watch Obi-Wan’s eyelashes flutter. Something stirs in the Force, as well. “Master, please,” you beg, and it’s a little whiny, you’ll own that, but all the same, you’re simultaneously making your case and wiggling on your Master’s lap, attempting to disrobe both of you below the waist. Fortunately, Obi-Wan never completely finished tucking himself back in the first time, to say nothing of the considerable practice you’ve had shifting clothing around in small spaces.

“Anakin-” Obi-Wan tries again, but you silence him with yet another kiss. Sometimes, the men in the Back Room have small containers of oil, various lubricating mixtures to aid in you entering them (but never vice-versa, of course). You don’t have any with you now, nor do you expect that i is something your Master totes around in his utility belt. You move to begin guiding your Master’s member inside of you, when you hear him gasp. “Anakin, there’s no, you’re not ready to-”

“You’re wet,” you tell him hurriedly, and rub his pre-come slicked cock a couple of times with your hand, smiling at the quiet groan this elicits from him. “It’ll be enough,” you manage as the tip of his cock breaches you. Bouncing tensely a few times slides him further in. The Force flickers behind your eyes. It hurts a little, but the culminating presence of Obi-Wan’s noises and the way he slings an arm around you to keep you in place are easy to focus on instead. 

You kiss him again, and then press your sweaty foreheads together. Obi-Wan’s thrusts seem more purposeful now, like at some point his body decided to be an active participant in this. His cock goes deeper, hitting your prostate over and over again. 

Keening, curled forward, your breath comes in heaves as you grip your own cock and begin masturbating yourself. At one point, you pitch forward a little too far, and laugh a little when you end up fully in Obi-Wan’s arms. The look of dawning realization on your face when his hand, more worn than yours and warm from being in gloves, covers and then replaces the hold you have on your cock. “Oh, Master,” you utter, and then stars dance before your eyes as the stimulation puts you over the edge. 

You’re still in the throes of post-orgasm when you feel Obi-Wan speed up his thrusts even more. You can feel his energy mingling with yours in the Force now. It’s incredible, especially after having been cut off from feeling it at all for so long. You make sure you can see Obi-Wan’s face when he finally comes, make sure to memorize the way he sounds and smells and looks this close.

You clean yourselves up separately. It’s quiet between you for a while, but not unpleasantly silent. Indeed, something non-physical has also been breached between you. It’s not something you can talk about, not yet, but you suspect there will be several opportunities for it, especially considering how many more evenings you’ll probably be spending at the Temple proper after all this. Probably Obi-Wan knows this, too, but it’s not necessary to confirm anything right now.

The ship’s engine is turning over before Obi-Wan finally speaks. “Can I offer you a ride home?” he asks you, and he’s not smiling, but the expression on his face leaves no doubt in your mind that you are loved, safe. You nod and settle into the passenger seat, trusting your Master to pilot you both back to the Temple, back to your shared lives, to a world and a duty that you have a greater respect for now, a purpose as clear as the familiar path back to reality under the starry Coruscant sky, a silent witness whose every twinkle belies a secret that it promises to forever keep.


End file.
